


True that I Saw Her Hair (like the Branch of a Tree)

by elle_nic



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Andy remains nameless, Completed, F/F, Fey AU, Fey!Andy, Fey!Miranda, Flowers, Happy Ending, I mean, Imps - Freeform, Its kind of a princess diaries crossover too i guess, Language of Flowers, Lore - Freeform, Magic, Miranda falls in love like immediately lol, Miranda is a little ooc, Other Magical Creatures, Spring Fey Lore, The Plot Thickens, Very AU, Villager!Miranda, be warned, btw the grandmama is julie andrews so jot that down, inspired by Hozier, its the only sensible reaction if you ask me, its whimsical, original lore, who wouldnt if they met a gorgeous fey in the forest??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-03-06 18:07:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18856297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elle_nic/pseuds/elle_nic
Summary: “It’s getting dark, Miranda,” the fey said, stroking her cheek reverently, “Time to go home, pretty thing.”





	1. The Sweeter the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> I love a fey AU and wish there were more, so here is this humble first chapter to a little side project of mine. Focus will be taking priority over this one, so updates will be slightly irregular. Chapter 7 for Focus is also on its way! Please enjoy :)))
> 
> For Kerry, Edyn and Para, and the rest of the F&F discord: thank you all for motivating and supporting me, y'all mean the world x

CHAPTER ONE:

**THE SWEETER THE SUN**

_With the roar of the fire my heart goes to its feet_

_Like the ashes of ash, I saw eyes in the heat_

_Sitting soft in this purest snow_

_Fell in love with the fire long ago_

_\- Would That I, Hozier_

.oOo.

It’s a beautiful, early evening in spring when Miranda finally gets to the forest’s edge.

“Perfect timing,” she says to herself before taking another step. She’s been needing to find and harvest some sleeping bittercress for some time now, but until today, she hasn’t had the opportunity. She makes salves in her spare time for the other village goers, who are always in need of some healing salve or another from small injuries that happen to crop up.

She walks serenely through the forest and the undergrowth, breathing in the fresh forest air and listening to the birds settling down for the night. Walking out from the taller, light bark trees to a glade she frequents for sleeping bittercress, she peruses the soft grass and the small white and pink flowers and finds a contentment that follows the emergence of spring. She walks carefully and cautiously that she doesn’t crush any of the small, delicate flowers beneath her shoes and moves to the gentle slope where her prize lay. The sun, just setting and casting a golden hue over the already beautiful glade brings Miranda a peacefulness that remains elusive anywhere else.

She often wished she lived in the forest, away from the trivial squabbling of the petty villagers and the horrid stench of smoke and steel from the blacksmith and the manure that the horses and other livestock leave around town. She wished she lived among the silver bark trees and the buzzing honey bees and the sunshine in the breeze. As she kneeled in front of the small, purple flower she needed for her salve, Miranda thought about living with someone she loved and living a simple life with them. Memories of being cast out of her childhood town for falling in love with the baker’s daughter fill her head, and the hope that she lived on once dies a little in her chest. Perhaps she might find a love to sustain again one day, but she’s not going to hold her breath.

She loves this glade, where the songbirds visit and the few rabbits milling about take no notice of her. She has always held flowers and plants in the highest of regard, and though she needs to harvest them often, she always thanks the earth for the service of growing the supplies she needs for her craft. It’s a blessing to her, to be surrounded by blooms and trees and grass. One of the few things of her family that she brought with her to her new life was the age-old tradition in her family of worshipping nature. She wonders if perhaps she has had fey blood in her blood-line in generations past.

And she truly does believe in the fey, though she never told her family. Her mother and father and older brother had been people born of practicality and rigidity, so unlike her. She was born in spring, as the jacaranda trees were blossoming, and on a fine sunny morning. She felt it was no coincidence that those were the details of her birth, or that she could revive and grow any plant from the brink of death and give it vitality again. She was always odd to her mother, who had remained distant enough to observe her only daughter, always a nuisance to her father who would rather have had a second son and always a bother to her apprenticing brother who smelled of soot and smoke.

She was a head of golden hair that sparkled pink in the right light, and light blue eyes that were crisp and sharp. She was considered a beauty when she matured after her rambunctious childhood. Her beauty was what caught the eye of the baker’s daughter to begin with. Marissa was a mousy brunette, shorter than her by several inches, and quite curvaceous. She was not considered conventionally beautiful by the rest of the town, but Miranda had been besotted by her from the moment Marissa had asked about the flowers in her blonde hair. They became fast friends after that and poor Miranda, having fallen in love with the gentle baker, was cast out of town before the summer’s end.

From the corner of her eye, Miranda saw a flash of a dark coat. Snapping her attention to the strange newcomer, Miranda noticed how tall the figure that loomed at the edge of the glade was. The hood of the coat was down, and Miranda noticed that from the top of the tall stature spilled long, auburn brunette locks with plaits and flowers woven into it, reaching as far as the woman’s waist before curling slightly and ending. It was lovely hair, Miranda thought, thick and shiny and catching the light of the sun through the canopy above and sparkling a deep orange.

Her feet were moving without her conscious thought, but she did not wish to stop her approach. Her soft footfalls alerted her unexpected companion. Miranda could tell by the way the figure stiffened and ceased all movement. A pale hand that had been reaching for another flower on a low tree branch froze, the soft skin bending the light around it in an eerily beautiful way. Miranda held her breath, and knew, in some instinctual part of her soul, that the woman before her was not human.

She remembered the days as a child when she would read through the books on fey at the town bookstore, how the rain would pelt against the window panes and the candlelight would dance along to the draughts in the room. She’d read about how the fey interact with one another, how they use the sun and moon and seasons to hone their magic, and how they each differ from one another because of that. Miranda could assume the figure before her was of the spring denomination within the fey hierarchy, which meant they were powerful, and would expect the utmost respect.

“Hello?”

Slowly, the figure turned towards Miranda, almost fearfully. Miranda had braced herself for the appearance of the creature. She had always imagined the fey to have faces of animals and teeth of sharks and the skin of crocodiles. She imagined them as being frightening and powerful and ferocious, not at all like what the woman before looked like. Smooth, pale skin, narrow nose, huge eyes and huge lips, pinked and blushed cheeks. The only animalistic feature the woman had was her eyes, which were slitted like a cat’s and seemed textured like amethyst in a striking golden colour. Miranda’s breath was taken from her, snatched in the face of such a painfully beautiful woman.

The woman tilted her head at Miranda, looked at her from her feet to her hair and then darted back to the light purple flowers clutched in her hands. The woman looked back to her eyes and raised a curious brow then pointedly gestured to the flowers. Miranda, having forgotten every notion of fey etiquette, held the bunch of sleeping bittercress out to the tall fey.

Miranda saw, with her own mortal eyes, as the dying sunset light shimmered around the woman’s face, bending and bowing as the most magnificent smile Miranda had ever seen graced her. She could not stop staring at how ethereal the expression on the fey’ face was, how utterly exquisite she was.

“Oh,” she breathed as their hands brushed during the exchange of the flowers. The woman brought the bittercress to her nose, inhaled softly and sighed her delight before offering Miranda one of the light pink flowers the fey had been collecting. She tentatively accepted the flower, and at the expectant look she was given, she too leant down to smell the flower, humming at the sweet, honeyed scent it exuded.

“Thank you,” Miranda whispered, her voice barely audible above the sound of the night fauna emerging in the dying rays of sunlight. But the fey heard her, she knew.

“What is your name?” Miranda dared to ask. The woman, so tall Miranda had to arch her neck slightly, frowned, her smile dimming ever-so-slightly. “I’m sorry,” Miranda said quickly, wanting to see that lovely smile again, not wanting to upset the creature before her that made her eyes ache with her beauty.

“Tell me your name, pretty mortal,” the creature spoke. Her voice was soft and delicate, so gentle and kind.

Miranda hesitated but only for a moment. “Miranda,” she said. The creature smiled again, “Miranda,” she said, curving the name around her lovely mouth.

“Oh,” Miranda breathed again. She was stunned into stillness, staring. The creature smiled indulgently at her, moved her hand to Miranda’s hair and carded through it once, letting it fall to her shoulders in its soft waves, curling too at its ends.

“It’s getting dark, Miranda,” the fey said, stroking her cheek reverently, “Time to go home, pretty thing.”

“Right,” Miranda said absently. “Home…”

The creature smiled, “Yes.”

“But where do you live? I’ve never seen you before,” Miranda beseeched as the fey guided her out of the glade. At the edge of the thick tree line was where they both stopped, the fey guiding Miranda with a hand on her lower back and the other hand clutching tightly to the bittercress Miranda had given her earlier. She didn’t even think to ask for the flower back.

“Don’t worry, pretty thing,” the creature said, her skin glowing like the evening sun in the growing darkness. “I will see you soon,” she whispered, nudging Miranda forward a step. Miranda turned to the forest and looked at the path she usual took to get to the glade. She knew her way home, knew it even in the dark, and knew it was an easy thing to simply step forward and begin her journey to her cottage. But she didn’t want to leave the creature so soon, the proof of her beliefs that she had craved as a child and young woman. The fey _were_ real and Miranda had just met one, had just been promised they could meet again.

She turned to ask, to beg, for the creature to stay with her a few moments more, or perhaps to invite her back to her home for supper. Miranda had the words on her tongue ready to be spoken.

“I wondered-” she began but turned to meet the empty air of the glade, bare of any alluring creatures. Miranda staved off the harsh punch of disappointment in her gut, placing a hand on her midsection to stop the pain from spreading. She sighed, the exhale loud in her ears in the silence of the glade and turned. She kept her eyes, keen even in darkness, peeled for any hint of her lady fey, in case the tall creature had changed her mind. When she made it to the edge of the village, just near her home, she knew that she would not see her strange, beautiful visitor again until she was ready to be seen.

As she stepped up to her back door, she felt the prickle on her neck that she always got when she was being watched. Turning to look at the tree line that she had emerged from minutes before, she spied glowing cat’s eyes peering at her curiously. She had never liked to be watched in her old town, felt prickly and small with so many beady eyes on her. But the golden hued cat eyes peering at her from a distance warmed her and gave her the distinct feeling of being protected rather than scrutinised.

She waved at the tree line, awkwardly and unsurely, but smiled in relief when she saw the eyes crinkle as they had when the creature smiled at her. Miranda watched and waited, hoping that the fey would emerge and join her as she had wanted to offer. But then one blink of golden eyes, two, and after the third, Miranda knew she was gone. She smiled a small smile, pulling her eyes away from the dark forest and entering her home. Miranda had eaten, bathed and was about to fall to sleep in her bed before she sat up in realisation.

She had not even gotten any sleeping bittercress.

 

 

 

 

 


	2. That Shone in her Hair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Tell the Bogs,” the fey began, “That spring has arrived.”

CHAPTER TWO:

**THAT SHONE IN HER HAIR**

_Oh, dream maker, you heart breaker  
Wherever you're going, I'm going your way._

_\- Moon River, Audrey Hepburn_

.oOo.

Miranda’s eyes opened with bleary reluctance, blinking away the visions of gold and auburn that lingered in her mind’s eye. She frowned as daylight danced along her bedroom walls, the spring sun having risen already and the birds outside wakeful and chattering. She recalled much of the day before, but as she recalled setting off for the glade, her mind began to swim with a wobbly uncertainty. It felt as if she were dreaming of the forest, and seeing a sun blessed woman, tall and shrouded in green and flowers, bending the light as no mortal could.

She lazed for a moment, decided from her memories that she had not seen a faerie, had not seen cat eyes in the night before she entered her home. She had always had an active imagination as a child, or so her mother berated her. She’d spend hours staring out into the forest or at the hamlet’s main garden and think of the little creatures that coaxed the petals from buds and the leaves from limbs on tall trees. She chalked up her dream to her active imagination and rolled from bed with dour purpose.

Her fanciful ways had been what ruined her last home, ruined her family and drove her from town. She had imagined too often and too vividly a life with Marissa, of them having a small cottage, not unlike her own now. They’d have a herb garden and a good oven for Marissa to bake with, and a few goats and chickens. They’d drink chrysanthemum tea together in the mornings and traverse the forest in the day and then read their afternoons away before retiring to bed together. But, Miranda thought with no small amount of remorse, it did not turn out that way at all.

Marissa had turned her away with harsh, cutting words and all the measured fury a woman who kneads bread all day would possess. Her brother had called her horribly unnatural, had told her that her imagination and fascination with plants would not put food on the table. Her mother had looked her in the eye and simply said, “I knew you were a queer thing the moment you were born from me.” Her father had agreed in brooding silence, not bothering to speak to someone like her. So, no, Miranda thought as she scrubbed her face in some fresh water, life was not as fanciful as she’d like, and her imagination would do well to sod off.

Miranda had made herself some porridge with honey and seeds and was halfway finished with eating her breakfast before she realised what was on the table. There, in a slender, shallow vase was a pale pink blossom from the tree in the glade. It hadn’t wilted even slightly in the night, nor were any of its petals bruised or less than perfect.

“My goodness,” she said on an exhale.

And suddenly, as vividly as if it were happening before her, she saw golden eyes smiling down at her and handing her the pink flower, honey scented and rich. She felt the warm hand of her creature guiding her away from the glade and remembered waving from her back-door stoop at observing eyes. Miranda laughed as she saw the other flowers in the vase with her single pink one. Several stems of sleeping bittercress stood tall and proud and as potent as they could ever be.

“She’s real!”

.oOo.

“Grand, luv, as always,” said Widow Barton of the apothecary. Miranda nodded her head and accepted the few brass coins in return. Widow Barton and she had been doing business since Miranda came to town in the middle of a spring shower four summers before. She had a way with plants, said the Widow, and therefore a way with salves and brews that were of a higher quality than most. Miranda liked the old woman, wrinkled of face and brittle of bone as she was.

“Here, luv, thought you might like this one,” the old woman said, sliding a book towards Miranda along the sturdy wooden counter. By the cover alone, Miranda could tell it was not a standard fiction or novel. Covered in what looked like runes and a webbed design, the book topic obviously regarded the fey, or ‘the other’ as this town referred to it.

“Oh? Thank you, Widow Barton, when do you want it back?”

“Don’t worry about that, luv, you just take it and have away with it, now.”

“Very well.” The bell signalling she had exited the shoppe had barely finished ringing before Miranda had opened the book and began at chapter one of the thick tome. She tried to be as aware of herself as she could have been, but she supposed it was inevitable that she would run into someone.

“I’m so sorry,” she said immediately, bending to pick up the few items whoever she bumped into had dropped.

“I’ve just gotten a new book and didn’t even think to…” she trailed off, recognising the face before her. Brunette hair, dark eyes and a pretty mouth. She was shorter than she remembered, but Miranda would recognise that face for the rest of her life.

“Marissa,” she said, her voice pitched questioningly. She quickly handed the shorter woman her things, noting that she had not stopped staring at Miranda. She was a little rounder than when they knew each other, and her hair was certainly shorter. Marissa looked older than her twenty-four summers, and she appeared as though she hadn’t slept the night before. Or at all in the last week.

“Right,” Miranda said awkwardly, nodding her head at her once friend before moving around the woman to continue on her way. A hand, strong from years of kneading bread and carrying loaves day after day, leapt toward her arm and held her in place. Dark eyes, peering up from under long lashes looked at her confusedly.

“Miranda?” Miranda stiffened at the stunned tone.

“Well,” she said sharply, sharply than she’d ever spoken to Marissa when they knew each other, “who else?”

“Stars above, Miranda, have you been here all these years?”

“Not on this patch of cobblestone specifically,” Miranda said sardonically, “But in this town, yes.”

Marissa’s eyes widened as her grip tightened slightly, not enough to hurt or even to bruise but more than necessary to keep Miranda’s attention.

“I looked for you,” Marissa said. “Papa married me to a boy from another town and I didn’t- I didn’t want to marry him but I didn’t know what to do. I’ve run away from him,” she said in rushed, low whispers.

Miranda recalled the last time she had spoken to Marissa, and the words they shared with one another. It was after Miranda had kissed Marissa by the old sarsen stones of the tall hill near their town and after Marissa had slapped her across the face. It was after Marissa had called her vile, called her a disgrace and an abomination. It was after Marissa had told everyone who would listen that Miranda had kissed her, told them was a horribly twisted person and friend she was. The last time they spoke was after Miranda had been banished from her family home and had gone to Marissa to beg for a place to stay. Begged her for help, tried to apologise for the distress she had caused her only friend and sought out forgiveness and mercy. She had been turned away, pushed out into the rain and sent off with the distinct call never to talk to her again.

“Didn’t know what to do? Didn’t know where to turn, who to run to… I know how you felt once upon a time,” Miranda said coolly, prying the strong grip from her arm.

“Miranda, you know that I didn’t mean what I said-”

“No, Ms Caraway,” Miranda interrupted. “I don’t know that you didn’t mean it, and I wouldn’t believe you if you told me that now or then. If you’ll excuse me.”

“No! Miranda, _listen to me_ ,” Marissa hissed, grabbing her arm again, unnaturally strong. This time the grip did hurt, and Miranda nearly shouted at the sudden vice around her.

“I ran away from the hamlet and I ran from my husband, Miranda, because I love _you_ and I’ve nowhere to go, you _have_ to take me with you!”

Miranda froze, unsure whether she truly heard the dual tones in Marissa voice, one a soft lilt the baker had always had and one that sounded far darker; grumbling and possessive. But as Miranda looked at the shorter brunette, she saw no hint of anything amiss.

“You _have_ to,” she repeated.

Miranda’s heart, the one she had spent the last four years mending, had hardened at the demanding tone Marissa used on her. There was a time where she would’ve done anything for the brunette, anything to help her, to make her more comfortable, to make her smile. She was prepared to turn the woman away, scold her for ever thinking she had a right to ask of anything from Miranda. She made the mistake of looking into her eyes, seeing the spark of something not quite right, but feeling her mouth form the words anyway.

“Okay,” she heard herself say, “My home is not too far away.”

And if Marissa’s teeth were too sharp to be human, well, Miranda certainly didn’t notice.

.oOo.

“Your home is lovely,” Marissa said as she wandered to the chaise lounge and sat. Miranda blinked, noticing the way the light, softer in the golden hue of afternoon light, wriggled almost uncomfortably around Marissa’s skin.

“Thank you. Do you want some te-”

“When will the sun set?”

Miranda looked at the woman, felt her neck prickle and her brow begin to sweat. The sun set very soon, and suddenly Miranda wished the sun was higher than it was. “Oh, a quarter hour, perhaps,” she said nonchalantly, walking to the kitchen to stand near her knife block. Marissa was acting strangely, her voice wobbling between too high pitched and too low and rumbling to be her own. She twitched near her eye and avoided the numerous vases of flowers scattered around the sitting room. She recalled that Marissa loved flowers.

“I’m terribly excited,” Marissa said, mouth stretched into a grin far too wide.

“Oh?” Miranda said faintly, wishing she were not alone with Marissa. The brunette had never frightened her, had never acted so bizarrely. Like she was hungry, but unwilling to eat, like she had an errand to run. Miranda wondered if her creature ever acted like this. She certainly hoped not.

“I’ll light some candles,” Miranda said, moving to the cabinet that held the matches.

“No!”

She froze, her hand poised to open the door. The sun was withering far too quickly, the light leaking out of the windows and falling behind the forest, leaving a shroud of horrible sightlessness in its wake. Marissa had not moved, but she was twitching a little more now, just visible to Miranda’s human eyes, her silhouette jumping slightly from where she stood in the sitting room.

“Marissa?”

“Oh,” the voice said, crawling along Miranda’s spine and settling at the back of her neck, “What a tasty little-”

“Oh, good,” another voice interrupted, this one sunshine and relief, “I’m not too late.”

Suddenly, the room was lit by every candle, illuminating the sickly form of Marissa and the tall, graceful posture of Miranda’s creature. The other thing – Miranda was now convinced it wasn’t Marissa at all – hissed and hunched at the sudden flare of light. Miranda looked at the back door, sure she had locked it but relieved to see the fey from the glade anyway. She was as achingly beautiful as she remembered, slender and decorated by all manner of lovely petals and blooms and wearing her dark green coat. She moved further into the rooms, the warm glow of the candles embracing her as she waded through the lights toward Miranda, still frozen by the cabinet.

“Are you alright, pretty thing?” She inquired, her brow creased ever so slightly. Enough for Miranda to realise she was worried.

“Quite fine,” she replied, surprisingly steadily. “It’s her I’m worried about,” she said, gesturing with her head to the Not Marissa now spasming by her chaise lounge, her mouth pulled in a violent moue and her eyes no longer dark, but a pale milky white all around. It was horrifying.

“I thought I might have some more time,” the beautiful creature sighed. “But I suppose there will be more opportunity later to get to know one another.”

“What?” Miranda said cleverly.

“Worry not, lovely mortal,” the creature dismissed. “I won’t be but a moment,” she said then, moving from the kitchen to where Not Marissa was doubled over and frothing at her mouth, snarling every now and then. Miranda had to grip the bench behind her, so she didn’t fall down. She hoped the real Marissa was alright, even if she wanted nothing to do with Miranda.

“A bog imp?” Miranda heard her creature say. “You’re very far from home, mud.”

“You have be- been careless, princess,” she other… _thing_ said.

“Not careless,” she vetoed, “just not hasty enough, evidently, if the Bogs are already trying to steal my consort.”

“We are plentiful, and we are determined,” spat the now collapsed form of the – imp, did her gorgeous creature say?

“Plentiful and determined as you are,” said the tall brunette, glowing a brilliant gold in the warm lights of the candles, “You are no match for _me_.”

The vases of flowers scattered around her home began to glow. Shades of pinks and purples and yellows, blues, reds, all directed at the imp on the floor and ripping a tortured screech from its mouth. Miranda blocked her ears and faintly realised that her creature was staring stonily at the whimpering thing, unmoved by the display. She hadn’t even considered that her fey might be dangerous.

“Enough!” cried the prone form, writhing and welting in the iridescence of the flowers.

“Tell the Bogs,” the fey began, “That spring has arrived.”

Miranda watched as the flowers fairly lit up the whole cottage, melting the windows and shaking the structure. The blast rendered the imp to ashes and a sickly green sliver of light that slithered through the broken windows and out of sight faster than a blink. All that remained of the body once the flowers ceased their onslaught, was an outline of soot or ash, and three sharp teeth.

The silence that followed as the fey creature stooped down and collected the teeth was very loud. Miranda stood, still in her kitchen, and wondered what in the fresh hell had just happened.

“What in the fresh hell just happened?”

The fey looked to Miranda and approached slowly, pocketing the teeth in her hand before she got too near. She stopped still and looked at Miranda from head to toe, pausing at her arm where Miranda knew there was a bruise forming from Not Marissa’s very strong grasp earlier. The expression on the pretty face, the cat eyes golden and keen, turned regretful and… angry.

“I’m afraid we must go,” she said, in lieu of answering Miranda’s very apt question. “The imp was not lying. They _are_ plentiful, and they _are_ determined.”

“I don’t understand,” Miranda whispered confusedly, “It wanted to kill me? I haven’t done anything to upset the fey! I haven’t ever-”

Miranda froze when the tall figure moved to stand not even an inch away from her, so close she could smell morning dew and feel sunlight on her skin, though the sun had already set.

“The imps are those things, my mortal, but they are still no match for me. They will not harm you if you come with me. I will explain more on the way to The Council.”

Miranda stared dumbly at the beautiful face above hers, focussed on lips and the soft breath of the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. She was undecided, however. Her troubles with whatever Not Marissa was had started with the fey before her and were sure to continue if she followed her wherever she wanted to go. But surely the fey could protect her from other dangers? But what if-

“Your safety is my priority,” the lovely mouth whispered. “I need to keep you safe, and there is no safer place than by my side. Will you come willingly?”

Miranda might have been able to say no if a pale, elegant hand did not rise to brush her hair away from her face and stroke her cheek with its knuckles. Didn’t she always wish for an adventure when she was young? With a fey, no less? She would certainly take care about what she wished for in future, that was for certain.

“You will explain everything?”

A solemn nod.

“You will keep us _both_ safe?” The idea of her golden fey injured pulled at her insides painfully.

Another nod and a small smile.

“Will you tell me your name?”

A pause. Deliberation. A nod.

“What is it then?”

“My name,” she fey said, “Miranda,” she added with a fond smile, “Is Andréa.”

“Andréa,” she said, pronounced perfectly. Andréa leaned down to press a gentle kiss to Miranda’s forehead, taking the mortal’s breath away in the process.

“And I’m afraid, we are quite married.”

Stillness.

“ _What!_ ”

 

 

 


	3. My Darling, My Love

CHAPTER THREE:

**MY DARLING, MY LOVE**

_Now somewhere time pursues us,_  
As we love in technicolour.  
But I dwell in silence on your words,  
Which move me like none other.

\- _BaBopByeYa_ , Janelle Monáe

.oOo.

Miranda was… dazed was not the right word. She was present but as the forest wriggled past her, her hand caught in the fey’s, she wondered just how present. The blur of grey and black and green and stars danced in the corner of her eyes, settling like a pit of snakes in her gut, a hive of bees in her mind. Where were they going?

“Where are we going?”

The fey did not stop her strides, hasty and urgent and unfairly graceful. Miranda stumbled and ambled and when she caught her step she was dragged into tripping again, such was the pace of the creature leading her. The grip of the shadows in the forest were frightening as they hadn’t been before, grappling around in the breeze for her, to pull her away from the woman holding her hand. The forest, for the first time ever, terrified her.

“Where are we going,” she asked again, breathless and frightened and tripping over her words and feet and fast pace. Where the fuck were they going?

“Andréa, I-”

“Hush,” the fey demanded, halting abruptly. Miranda breathed, felt the sweat in the palm of her hand, on her brow, the ache of her lungs and her feet. She listened.

“Stay quiet, precious,” the brunette whispered, the words trailing on a breeze so much so that Miranda almost didn’t hear. She wanted to scream at the taller figure shrouded in darkness. She wanted to rage and cry and _ask, ask, ask where are we going_? She stayed quiet. She stayed so very quiet.

Andréa was twitching, looking in all direction and squeezing her hand as she did so. She breathed with the breeze, and stepped with the wind, slowly and cautiously, the way Miranda though they should have been since they left her home. Her home where Andréa had killed something with flowers. A thing that looked like her first love, but was another creature, like Andréa was. Good grief, where were they going? Andréa, as if sensing her imminent questions, held up an open hand to halt her, looking resolutely in one dark, sinister shadow to their far left. Miranda looked there too, and looked and looked and looked.

Something looked back.

“Go!”

Miranda didn’t dare pause to breathe once Andréa gasped her command. She held on, she ran, she kept her footing. She watched the trees melt past her, the air go straight through her. She felt something follow them, felt her heart screaming in her chest, banging against the metal bars of her ribcage. She didn’t look back at whatever was whispering behind them, didn’t look back like she hadn’t when she left her home town, when her family cast her out. She was alone then, and she felt alone now, despite the hand in her own.

They stopped. Stopped running, started breathing, relaxed. Why had they stopped?

“Why did we stop?”

She looked only to Andréa, who had troubled eyes and ruffled hair and determination in her posture. Relief, too, Miranda noticed. She was glad to see that.

“We’re safe now, pretty,” she breathed.

Miranda looked around to the small cave they were in, the glowing spots of blue on the roof, the sound of water dripping and the breeze from the entrance behind her. She didn’t dare to turn and look if they were still being followed.

“Come here,” Andréa said kindly, with the same light in her mouth and the same shine to her eyes as when they first met in the sun. Miranda didn’t trust her. She looked sceptically to the hand beckoning her forth. She made no move to reach for it.

“Miranda,” Andréa said, the last syllable echoing gently in the cave. “We’re safe now. We’re safe,” Andréa emphasised. Miranda looked around the cave. She wasn’t convinced.

“We have to do one more thing to get home, then you never have to worry again, okay?”

“No,” Miranda whispered. “You will start explaining now, and then I will decide if I go with you.”

“I can’t, not yet. I need to speak to someone first, to make sure,” Andréa said. “I didn’t let harm come to you out in the mundane world. Not in the glade, not in your home and not on the journey here,” the fey said, stepping closer and brushing her hand on Miranda’s slender shoulder.

“Where is ‘here’?”

The toothy smile seemed a little too large on the brunette’s face, but it was genuine. She didn’t trust her, but Miranda likely didn’t have another choice than to go with her beautiful, strange captor.

“This is the Gate.”

As soon as she spoke, the blue dots on the roof began to glow brighter, lighting the pool of water underneath to near blinding proportions. The water did not seem transparent to Miranda. It seemed to solidify its blue colour, and swirl with all shades of lighter and darker, rippling into the image of a golden bridge. Miranda could not see further than that in the image it painted.

The sound of the water splashing and crashing against the rocky pool edges was deafening and frightening, the water that touched them cool. Too loud and too echoey in the cavernous, pitch black cave. Miranda had not realised she had cowered into Andréa until she was being cradled in the long arms.

“I’ll protect you, Miranda,” she whispered into her hair. Miranda shut her eyes and ignored the crashing waves, impossible waves, and focussed instead on the voice of spring in her ear. “At the cost of my own life, I will protect you.” A piece of her mistrust crumbled away, but she held on tightly to the rest. She could not afford to trust this creature that had killed whatever Marissa had been, the one that had dragged her most uncouthly through the forest. The creature that claimed to be her wife. Preposterous…?

“We need to go in,” Andréa said next. Miranda knew that would be the case and turned around in the arms that held her. Placed her face in the crook of a slender neck and resigned to the cool reach of the water that her and Andréa dived into. But a moment later, there was sun at her back, no water in her hair or ears or clothes. There was very little sound, very little movement. Like wading through lake water with a muddy floor. Andréa was there, she knew, but anything beyond that was a bright, soundless blur of colour and deep, horrible silence.

She blinked groggily at Andréa, who was frowning at her, talking to her with a fast-moving mouth but Miranda heard nothing, couldn’t read her lips. She stared at the beautiful face of the fey and managed nothing else than admiring how she glowed in the strange place they had dived into. She trusted that face. She couldn’t think why.

“Miranda, my love, can you hear me?”

She couldn’t.

“Don’t worry, pretty thing, grandmother will know what to do.”

She couldn’t worry, not with how slow everything was. With how bright and saturated and _goodness_ , her head ached, her lungs ached, her bones ached. She had to go back, where she could hear and taste and breathe. She fell asleep.

Time moved even slower when she woke. Andréa was carrying her, and she was delighted in some delirious way to be held by the attractive brunette. There was another blonde, similar feature but different colouring. Older. Older than Miranda, than her mother, even, and she was frowning. Mouth moving, no sound. Her Andréa seemed distressed, and somewhere that offended her. Who was this new woman, this older, blonder woman who made her fey so upset?

“No, grandmama, we can’t just- She’ll be in there for so long-”

“Time will touch her differently in there… Only way, Andréa… Will emerge when she’s ready…”

She felt like she was floating down, but there was no noise and no air and no shadows wherever she was. Was she dead? Had she drowned in that pool with Andréa?

“I’m sorry, my love… So sorry… Only for a while… Back soon, so soon, my love, I promise…”

She landed on something soft, and bright and quiet. She tried to move her arms to reach for Andréa, who was moving backwards? Why? Why was she moving backwards? They had not been apart since she arrived at her home, so she had no reason to leave her now. She tried to say her name, but her mouth wouldn’t move, her voice didn’t vibrate in her throat. She was still and silent. They wrapped her in something that covered her. That took the sight of Andréa away. This made her angry, and frightened, because Andréa would protect her. She said she would. But her voice didn’t work, and her limbs remained motionless and her tears couldn’t fall.

They tucked her away, and for the first time since she dived with Andréa, Miranda knew the dark.

 


	4. My Heart Meets You There

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I am ice,” she said finally.
> 
> “You are magnificent,” Andréa returned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took ten years! It's a small chapter, how I intended it to be, and also leaves room for me to write a sequel if I'm ever so inclined. Be kind :)))

** CHAPTER FOUR: **

**MY HEART MEETS YOU THERE**

_How deeply are you sleeping,_

_Or are you still awake?_

_\- Sky Full of Song, Florence + the Machine_

.oOo.

Time moved like melted glass, sluggish and warm, then it cooled and turned clear, blue and green and gold. Time had moved, slowly, then not at all, then it simply stopped. She heard her breath, opened her eyes and saw it, too, dancing along on the air she had been tasting for all of time. She could see better now, after being lain in her prison by Andréa, who she had heard weeping while time solidified around her. Miranda breathed and, finally, she could see. She sat up. She was in a room, but not like any she had ever been in before, when she was just a woman and not in a land where the fey grew and died. It was golden still, but it didn’t hurt to look at, didn’t hurt to breathe in the golden air.

Andréa was there.

“Miranda,” she cried, keeping her distance but looking at her so surely, so eternally. Miranda looked back.

She lifted her legs, saw her dress had been aged to dust until only her skin, no longer a pale gold but bone white, remained. She was shining in the golden light of the land of the fey. She reached a hand to touch, to try to make sense of it all, but her hand drew back at the stinging cold, the shards of glassy ice that licked her finger. She breathed out again, and watched the white cloud as it withered into nothing.

“I-…” she said, but didn’t manage another word. She looked at the cocoon she had been placed in, remembered it being alive, curling around her safely. She remembered it being dark and coiled around her like a second skin. Now it was a bubble of… Glass? No, she realised as she touched it. It was ice. It was hers. The image of blues giving way to a golden bridge, of a blonde woman who had upset Andréa, the images of sad, sad eyes… she remembered. She remembered not being able to hear anything, or see much past the burning light, or breathe the air that felt too clean. Her lungs burned at the memory.

“I am ice,” she said finally.

“You are magnificent,” Andréa returned. She had not stepped closer to her but she didn’t seem afraid, Miranda noticed. She looked the same, but she was dressed in a gown of dark orange and her green coat instead of the gentle spring colours she had been wearing before. She looked mournful, like Miranda was lain in a coffin rather than a cocoon of ice that didn’t seem to melt.

“I am _ice_ , Andréa,” she stressed. It felt good to speak, her throat vibrating with her incredulity.

“You are…-“

“-I am _what_?” she begged. _What am I?!_

“You are fey.”

It seemed so obvious, now that the words had been uttered. She was mortal before, too small and simple for the world of fey, for the world of magic and seasons and trickery. She was mortal, and the imps and the other hostile creatures wanted her dead. She was mortal when she was placed in her prison for _eternity_ , forced to hear Andréa weep over her and feel her mortality wither away like her clothes. She was mortal. And now she was not. _She was ice._

“I had been waiting for you since before time,” Andréa said. She was at the bottom of the dais Miranda seemed to be on, still naked in her icy shell. Andréa did not step closer even still. “I had been waiting for the mortal who had the Sight. You could always see my brothers and sisters weaving the seasons together, couldn’t you? Even if your mother had tried to tell you you couldn’t?”

Miranda didn’t answer.

“It was told that I would exists as I do, solitary, until the mortal who could See would offer me herself,” Andréa continued, not cowed by Miranda’s piercing gaze in the slightest. “When spring fey wish to offer union to another, they offer a flower,” Andréa added nervously, looking down at her gown. “If the same flower is returned to them… They are one.”

“You have me a flower,” Miranda whispered, the ice in her breath crystallising on her eyelashes. “And I gave it back.”

“You did,” Andréa breathed, the tenderness making the ice shell shatter, a spiderweb of cracks whispering along its surface.

“What am I?” she asked again.

“You are my wife,” Andréa answered. “You are fey.”

She took a deep breath and looked Miranda in the eyes, unflinchingly. Miranda could see cherry blossom petals in her irises.

“ _You are winter_.”

The weight that she expected to settle in her strangely remained absent. She moved her hand to hold her shoulder, to cover her breasts which she had only just realised were bare. She didn’t feel her hair settling on her fingers, couldn’t feel any of her strands tied up. A look in the ice showed it had been cut, or had shrunk or something. It was short at the back, wavy at the front, a stubborn forelock hugging her brow. It was silver.

“The bog imp was sent that day to kill you while you were still mortal. I needed to bring you here so you would be safe, but I didn’t realise that I should’ve done it the moment you handed me the blossom in the glade,” Andréa said softly. “Now that you are here, that you have become fey, become _winter_ , well… We are balance. We are the High Fey, not even Grandmama is more powerful now that you are here. You will stay, won’t you?”

Miranda wanted to say no. She wanted to say no to the pretty creature, tell her to take her back to the mortal realm and to leave her alone. She didn’t want this, she wanted to say. She was forced into a marriage, one she didn’t know she was entering, and she was forced to become the balance in the seasons. She wanted to say no… But she didn’t. She looked at Andréa, saw how she personified spring, how she was born a fey and how she had weaved the seasons on her own since the dawn of time. She saw Andréa as the loneliest creature she’d ever seen. Her icy heart beat steady, and her mind was made.

“For you,” she said softly, coldly, though she meant it to be gentle. “For you, I will stay.”

Andréa cried and smiled, and finally stepped forward, one step, two, three, four. She caressed the ice and Miranda watched in awe as it peeled back instead of melting.

“We are push and pull, give and take. We are hot and cold and light and dark. We are balance, and I will never melt you completely, just as you will never freeze me,” she said gently, unclipping her cloak and swinging it in an impressive arc until Miranda was draped in dark green.

“Will you teach me?” Miranda asked, running a hand through her shorter, silver hair. “Will you teach me not to freeze too much?”

Andréa smiled and leaned down, and finally, her fey kissed her. She was warmer, naturally, but Miranda didn’t mind the bee sting sensation of kissing her wife. It was brief, but wonderful, and as she pulled back, Miranda saw shards of ice along Andréa’s lips and watched with awe as they melted into her skin. She had an eternity to learn about  Andréa, an eternity to learn to cool the earth where Andréa was too warm. She had an eternity to fall in love with her wife. She decided to start right there.

“I’m glad it was you,” Andréa whispered, clipping the cloak securely around her and then stroking her hair, drifting to her cheek and caressing. “I’m glad it was you that had the Sight. I’m so, so glad, pretty fey.”

And as she felt the undeniable warmth of the green coat her _wife_ covered her with, she found that yes. She was glad, too.

She was glad, too.


End file.
